It has not once left me alone, the stubborn beauty,
It has called to me to be at last solved,
But I had left its secrets alone, the unknown pattern,
Colors telling stories left running around my head,
Every fragment remaining present at my side,
I've been left no choice but to learn the cube.
Subtlety not a strength of the cube,
It flashes its routine as a show of beauty,
A rotation giving some new meaning on every side,
It screams to me to be done and solved,
I cannot resist the call as it echos in my head,
As I am inclined to find the natural pattern.
It is not talent that I decode these patterns,
Wisdom pours from the pieces of the cube,
Strength to body, to my soul and head,
Until at last I can interpret that stubborn beauty,
New puzzles presented, new puzzles solved,
It remains with me ever at my side.
Others have put it from their side,
Trampled or mocked the power of pattern,
Convince their being that in their hands it can't be solved,
They self trap in the confines of the cube
Every aspect of both simple and dense beauty,
Lock and seal and throw away the key of their head.
Shame to me if trapped ever is my head,
With only ignorant misery to ever be at my side,
Gray-scale and dull would I find natural beauty,
Confusion certain to hold even with simple pattern,
Never would comprehension visit the cube,
Ever distant the problems from solved.
Joy to the heart that you may be solved,
Enlightenment to minds you posses our heads,
Wonderful truth in so small a cube,
Do not ever leave me, stay at my side
And whisper closely all your practical patterns,
Thank you for being such stubborn, stubborn beauty.
The pattern of the cube,
Can only be solved on every side,
If the beauty is in my head.
Copyright © Justin Benassi | Year Posted 2012
My heart, it is a beating drum
and it dances to many a note.
This sweet, song plays;
by God, is recorded.
Part of the heavenly band;
a spiritual lilting light.
In Gods light,
my beating drum,
slong with the band
tings out its notes.
A best-selling record,
finite, in its play.
A mortal song can play
within God’s holy light.
with golden drums,
play the best notes
in Heaven’s band.
Every good band,
with unending passion, plays
the most dynamic notes;
uplifting tones of beaming lights.
Every drummer’s drum,
Is heard and recorded.
In Heaven’s studio, is recorded,
when I play my drum;
oh how I play
vibrations of light;
celestial crystal notes.
Resounding, celestial notes
Ring on the ethers and are recorded
faster than the speed of light.
The history of Heaven’s band;
a soul’s music, can be played
upon their mortal drum.
Many notes dance in the celestial light.
Soul’s celestial records, will eternally play.
The happiest soul in the band; to the rhythm of life, will drum.
Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2015
In answer to all the darkness in every soul
I offer this to the mighty pitiful world
Whose most sagacious few lie blinded by the light
Or some similar god they know does not exist!
Herein now, some thoughts on shimmering hopes ere long
We return to the same strife-filled life we were last!
For the true dreams that life answers seldom outlast
Beyond the duration of any faithless soul
Who had ever struggled on faithfully for long
To accept or change the mighty pitiful world!
For these few are we who ever sought to exist
Under the false rays of some benevolent light.
And though sometimes there are moments of pure sunlight
That promise to never fade and forever last,
(Or promise to become real and really exist!)
Soon enough the bright faith in every faithful soul
Learns to rejoin the faithless, atheistic world
And thank the darkness for not holding back too long!
For faith is weak and bleak, and grief is strong and long,
And each rives and thrives to see darkness smother light!
Still, we seek to find some form of joy in the world
Till we’ve suffered enough and learned again at last
If there is a god who saves any life or soul,
It’s a god who only on Sundays would exist!
Yet, at least, faith and doubt peacefully coexist
(But keep to the realms of belief where they belong!)
Still, if there is anything like a living soul
Who even finds a single ray of faithful light,
He must have found the first of it and not the last,
Let alone some god who long ago fled this world!
So the hell with faith and the whole damned underworld!
Where generations of us still fail to exist!
Some great one of us may hold out until the last
And never ask why the ruse has gone on so long.
To bathe ourselves from time to time in hopeful light;
However false, hides the darkness in every soul.
Just walk the wordless world and watch it roll along.
Let existence exist, but wait for deathless light!
Till death comes at last; and pray that you have a soul.
Copyright © Patrick Stafford | Year Posted 2005
For much of my life I have been portraying
this seamless shell built just for displaying
to a world so intent on miming their play,
that reality’s bored, not wishing to stay,
and I don’t understand why it’s delaying
when all it can taste is a race dismaying.
Perhaps there is hope buried deep in dismay
waiting its chance to bloom and portray,
but with passing moments more it’s delayed
‘cos we are not fit to see it displayed,
and we do not stop and beg it to stay;
with sky tied eyes we drown in our play.
Like a junkie on crack with death we are playing,
waiting for the low, withdrawal, the dismaying
and nothing we do will keep us from staying
on this macadam of madness. This shadow portraying
depths of corruption, a negative display,
where tomorrow is something we wish to delay.
Now my cocoon is in shatters, apathy delayed
and all of my excuses have already been played.
I stand here soul baring, completely displayed
to the reproach of my maker, his total dismay
and no matter the remorse my prayers portray
his back is my answer as he refuses to stay,
so where do I rest, where shall I stay,
when heaven is a place trapped by delay,
and all that I was, in my memory portrayed
is celluloid guilt, constantly played.
A mirror of conscience, of echoed dismay
here on this stage of public display,
and now that my soul has been displayed
and the sentence of truth cannot be stayed.
It’s too late to wallow in self-pity's dismay.
To rebuild what was there can be no delay
and if I should falter, be tempted to play,
I know he is watching this persona portrayed.
An end to displaying what has been delaying,
the thought of me staying in the game we are playing.
To cease this dismay is what I wish to portray.
Copyright © Colin Marschall | Year Posted 2009